


tremble

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst I guess, Depression, Experimental Style, M/M, One Shot, One-Sided Relationship, Suicide, Surrealism, again im sorry, also the writing at the start might seem weird, but dw because it flows into a normal narrative later, dont read it, george says i love u but its no homo, idk what this is tbh, im sorry, it focuses mostly on alexs health, its 2am this whole thing is a bad idea, me hardcore projecting onto alex, oooff where do i start, or more so lackthereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 22:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18860080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Alex is blinking between life and death, flickering between the two like a flame, like he’s caught somewhere in-between.





	tremble

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone, get ready to read me project onto alex for 1900 words :')  
> also i just wanna say read the tags if u haven't so u know what mess ur getting into 
> 
> enjoy!

**I**

The scene is set with cold weather.

It’s windy in London, the type of wind that you feel in your bones and that no amount of layers can block out. The air is thick like mud, heavy and still damp with the previous night’s rain; it has a bad habit of getting trapped in your lungs – you try to cough it out. 

The streets are oddly quiet this morning, and not peacefully so because London, for a fact, is never quiet. Rather, it’s an eerie silence, an unnatural one – the type that leaves you paranoid because you can’t shake the feeling that something’s not quite right – again, because London is never quiet.

And the sun doesn’t shine either, not that that’s unusual, but the city is instead devoured by a sea of grey clouds, hanging above like a curse, like a stage prop. 

Then we pan down – take a sudden dip – and we zoom in through the window open of a tall building. It appears ordinary from the outside, like any other, but upon closer inspection we find an unsettling spectacle.

What scene lays before us here?

 

**~O~**

 

In his room alone sits Alex, his knees to his chest as he stares out the open window from his bed. His eyes are worn, wet and glassy, his cheeks red and blotchy. His hair is ruffled, his are lips bitten. His skin is too pale and grey-toned to be considered healthy. No, he looks unwell. He _is_ unwell.

But his gaze doesn't waver; his eyes are fixed, unflinching, even when the smoke comes; travelling in thick grey puffs through the window. London's gloom, London's melancholy – all filtering through.

And for a moment Alex can see white, as he uncoils, tipping back onto the bed, eyes rolling. His eyes can barely focus on the ceiling, seeing clarity and then a blur. All Alex knows is that more smoke is drifting in, collecting, and before long it's all he can see, all he can breathe.  

And now his eyes are crossing. He can't keep them open any longer he thinks, and when they finally shut he doesn't fight it. This is something he needs to give in to, something he needs to embrace, and when he does his senses feather. He's light now – he’s floating – he’s without a body.

And then he's asleep.

Engulfed in smoke – as though it holds him, as though it cradles him. Now, silence – silence until the room rings with Alex's phone. It sounds like a scream, though Alex doesn't wake to the noise, no, he doesn’t even stir. Mentally, he’s too far away.

 

 

**II**

There’s a groan and a cough, collapsing, bleeding from Alex’s mouth into the air where it goes to hang limply, as if it’s holding on by a thread, ready to snap. He feels like shit, like death, like he can’t fucking breathe because god – it’s all a regret – all of it. And it’s always a regret – when the guys come over for drinks and Alex finds it to be the perfect excuse to drink himself stupid, to drink himself senseless.  

And then there’s a stutter – his heartbeat, not quite right, not quite singing to the rhythm it should be. Alex doesn’t think he minds though, as if there’s something in the irregular beat that soothes him.

His eyes are half-lidded and when Alex looks out at the world, he’s peering through his lashes at a haze, at a mosaic, of patchy colours and shapes, of imagery he can’t decipher the meaning of.

“Alex.”

Alex can’t find the energy to shift his head in George’s directions, nor to open his mouth to speak. He offers a hum instead, to let him know he’s listening.   

“Thanks.” Alex really doesn’t have it in him to talk right now, really doesn’t want to part his lips, but conversations require more than one party and Alex knows George won’t explain if he doesn’t ask.

“For?”  

“Being here. With me.” God, George is drunk, maybe more so than Alex, and George was always too honest when drunk. Alex licks his lips. Purses them.  

“Of course I’m with you, George.” A pause, an inhale. “I’ll always be.” A lie.

George swallows audibly and Alex hears it.

“Really though…” George continues, tipping his head to rest back on the couch, “You mean so much to me, Al. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” George’s voice comes out in such a soft murmur that the words sound melted on his tongue, warm and sweet like syrup.

Alex doesn’t taste the same sweetness in his mouth, no; instead he feels the thick rising of guilt in the back of his throat. He can’t swallow it.  

And Alex somehow feels heavier now, and like the weight has sunken his body further into the couch. He can’t think of a reply to give George, can’t of a single thing that isn’t the lump in his throat because it’s the only part of his body he thinks he can feel.

He looks at George, shifting, locks eyes with him. Then he smiles. It's meant to be gentle, thankful, filling in for the words he can’t speak, but Alex knows there’s nervousness in it. A hesitation.

George however, doesn’t seem to notice.  

“I love you a lot, Al.” It’s a mumble, a slur, and George is evidently more unconscious than he is not.

“I love you too, George.” And then there's some of the weight lifted, there's relief – relief that comes with telling a secret to someone who won't remember the next day. 

George's eyes have fluttered close by now and Alex wonders what he's dreaming of, what colours he can see. And it's all quiet for a moment, all peaceful, until Alex decides he to cold, alone on his end of the couch.

Then there’s a shuffle, a movement, and Alex is now laid beside George, pushed up against him in the little rooms there is. The room fades to quiet, fades to black, and Alex listens to the sound of George’s even breaths, trying to sync his own to the same pace.

_I love you a lot, Al._

Alex doesn’t think George will ever understand how heavy those words weigh on him.

 

**~O~**

 

Behind closed eyes, Alex was spiralling.

And endless tunnel and a door. A vicious cycle and a way out. Was there a right answer or only a choice – only a decision to be made?

He thought he knew once, thought he had all the answers, but now – now he wasn’t so sure. Because there was another world beyond this one; soundless and still, without madness, without nausea, in fact, without anything at all.

And then there was George; warm – living. A sign of hope that Alex saw as a gift, as a blessing – but also as a complication. George was all that was keeping him here; keeping his feet on the ground and sometimes Alex couldn’t help but feel like that wasn’t enough. That as much as he loved George, adored him, he’d inevitably begin to float. Because George isn’t a solution, he’s only a short-term impression of one, filling a gap until Alex can find a solution in himself.   

Alex doesn’t think the prospect sounds promising.

 

**~O~**

 

Alex is blinking between life and death, flickering between the two like a flame, like he’s caught somewhere in-between.   

And maybe it’s all in his head, maybe he’s gone mad, but Alex can’t help but feel like the outline of his body isn’t quite as sharp as it used to be, that his edges have softened, faded, like he’s bleeding into the background. It’s as though there’s something indefinite about him; like he only exists within the company others; that when he’s alone, he becomes vague, a concept.

And he hardly eats anymore too. He doesn’t feel the need. No, Alex just sleeps these days, dreamless dreams, entirely unconcerned of waning savings account. And it’s to the point where George is worried sick, worried sleepless, because Alex is so distant. Alex is so detached and unreachable and they hardly talk anymore – they hardly see each other anymore and they live in the same goddamn apartment.     

George doesn’t think he watch. It makes him nauseous, makes his chest and his stomach curl. Makes him feel absolutely fucking hopeless and useless because nothing he’s doing helps. Alex doesn’t listen anymore, just stares, vacantly, and though his eyes are on him, George feels like Alex can’t see him at all.

George recommends a therapist, to get him to talk, to get him to actually leave the house, and somehow, by a fucking miracle, Alex agrees, and George loosens.

And there’s a breath, an intake, sharp, unexpected, and George’s lungs feel full for the first time in weeks.

 _Okay. I’ll go._ A pause. _If you want me to._

The session is booked for next week: Thursday, one o’clock.

Alex has seven days.

 

 

**III**

Thursday, nine AM.

Alex cries for the first time in what feels like an eternity, and, once he starts, he can’t find a way to make it stop. He’s trembling, violently, so much so that he can’t control movements, can’t even lift his hand up to his mouth.

And it’s full of them, his hand – of pills – dozens of them, old ones he stopped taking in high school. He kept for safe keeping, for times like now.  

Alex lets out a cry, a noise that he doesn’t recognise as his own voice.

“Fuck…” he breaths the word out, whimpering, choking. And then he’s all in. Palm to his mouth, pills down his throat, then a glass of water. And it’s messy, it’s hideous; because he’s coughing, sputtering, and pills tumble from his mouth and there’s water running down his chin and he’s still fucking shaking, still crying, still hysterical, but – he’s done it.

He’s got enough down; enough to do the job.

And Alex feels unwell. Because there’s George who’s out and who’ll be home in a couple hours and there’s Alex, with more meds in his system than he cares to know.

And George will come home to his body. George will come home to his body. George will come home and find his body.

There’s a knock, of Alex knees against the bathroom tiles.

A splash, of Alex spilling over.

An echo, of more sobs; more ugly breathless sobs.    

There’s no concept of time within Alex’s mind, there hasn’t been for a while but eventually, the tears stop running. The shaking stops, his breathing calms and stabilises. He doesn’t feel sadness, doesn’t feel guilt – he doesn’t feel anything at all other than present, existing.  

He walks to his room, each step forward like a deal, and agreement, that he’s moving toward something he won’t be able to come back from.

 

**~O~**

 

Alex moves to the window and opens it, put to peace by the silence. London is grey today, London is quiet. And then there’s the idea to call George. Alex frets at first, weighs the idea, but he knows, he has to say goodbye, at least try.

And so Alex dials his number; once, twice, five times, and there’s the same message.

“Hi, you’ve called George. I’m busy right now but I’ll call you back in a bit.”

_Beep._

And honestly, Alex doesn’t mind that he doesn’t pick up. Maybe it’s better this way. But Alex calls him one more time, just to hear his voice once more, even if it be his voicemail reply.

_Beep._

Alex chucks his phone down, sits on his bed. It’s time, he decides.

Now.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, just wanna say thank u to anyone who read this mess and that feedback would be super lovely and appreciated!!


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